


Ruffled feathers

by tomoewantsdolls



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Mini Big Bang Challenge, fic & art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 12:30:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomoewantsdolls/pseuds/tomoewantsdolls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no easy way to give some news, or how Lestrade reacts to finding out Sherlock isn't dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruffled feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's Sherlock Minibang with the awesome art of loracaique :D

Lestrade looked over his glass. "What do you mean with 'a mayor change in our course of action'?"

Mycroft inhaled deeply while cutting efficiently his filet mignon. The dinner was being a quiet and nice event in a discreet table in one of the best restaurants in the city and he was... enjoying it. But needs must, he couldn't avoid the issue much longer.

 "I've been highly imprecise", he said. After a pause to take a bite, chew and swallow he continued. Meanwhile Lestrade considered that testing his patience with every action must run in the Holmes genes. "When I say 'our' I mean 'mine' and... let's say an interested party."

Lestrade frowned. "I thought we were the only interested parties here." He said, his tone darker in his next words, his body leaning over the table. "Look, I don't risk a damn thing, I lost my bet back then... when... you know when. But my people..."

They weren't his people now, they hadn't been for two years, but Mycroft refrained to say anything in the matter. He estudied the other man's features, taking in his hair, his wrinkles, his eyes... Everything imbued in superlatives that spoke of stress, tiredness, but also compromise with doing the right thing. Doing the right thing at any cost. In that regard the former DI reminded him of his brother. And John. Each one with his peculiarities had more in common with each other that anyone dared to admit.

How was that? Birds of a feather...?

"They are safe, Greg, I garantee it. We're only picking the pace. Time is against us, he can't risk... It's John for whom is not safe anymore"

"What? Since when...?" The Holmes made use of his well practice stoicism, so useful in Political meetings and card games with mummy in equal measures. "Mycroft, I swear to god, if you don't tell me what's going on I'm going to commit murder right here right now, to hell with getting back my career, to hell with Moriarty's people, I'm done."

Temperament. Protectiveness. Birds... yes, birds of a feather flock together.

"There's no need for dramatism" He reached for his wine but stayed motionless for a moment, pensive, pondering his next words. There's no easy way to give some news, he've always known that. "I've been wondering when the time would come, and I think now it's a decision posponed for too long." He inspired, bracing himself for any response he might get. Anger, rage, indignation, probably in any variation; incredulity, for sure; verbal abuse... more certain than physical abuse. "We must move quickly so we need our best resources on the field to take the remaining menace down", he paused judiciously before comenting any further, letting the other man take a sip of his glass when a movement in his left caught his atention.

"Microft, we need to talk" The baritone voice made his stomach plummet in time he turned again to Lestrade to witness the explosive reaction on the other man. "Lestrade" A projection of very expensive, deep red wine reached his side of the table soaking everything including the, till then, inmaculate white shirt of his stupid, ill-timed exposed-to-the-living, not-so-dead little brother.

If not for the severe coughing fit that atempted to take the breath away of the poor man for good, he would have reveled in the expresion of utter disgust in his brother's face. Instead, he raised and patted awkwardly Lestrade's back in an attempt to ease his troubled breathing.

After a couple of raged breaths he seemed recovered enough to raise his head, his eyes open wide in disbelief fixed in the older Holmes' not daring to turn, his hands griping viciously on the tailored clothes. Mycroft cleared his throat, the tight lump too similar to guilt for his own comfort. "I was trying to tell you, trying to be... diplomatic" As always, he thought. Professional bias.

"Too slow" Sherlock said.

Mycroft and Lestrade turned their heads, the former with an acussatory glare, the later with incredulity imprinted in his features.

"Is you" he murmured, his voice ragged for the rests of the wine in his throat and what should be emotion. Mycroft wasn't sure, because the tears might be also due to the choking, and his ability to read other people seemed less reliable with this man.

Lestrade turned one last time to him, in search of reasurance. "I didn't get mad, did I? It's really him"

Mycroft strigtened while witnesed how his brother did the same, bracing himself for a punch that didn't come and recieving a iron clad hug instead. He flatened the creases in his clothes while a tiny smile reached his mouth. It felt right, his brother here in the city he belonged with the people he hold most dear, with the people he loved. He grimaced. Sentiment. Surely with a certain John Watson this won't be so easy.

 


End file.
